Tainted Love

by Drake, Tabatha

  “Fuck me, Dante,” she begs, submitting herself to me.

  I hug her little body against mine, relishing in her flexibility as I round her onto her back and take her quickly against the bed. Her tightness never ceases as I pump away at her. Moans escape her and her eyes flutter closed. Her body feels as good as it always has, even better than I ever imagined it would be the moment I saw her photo.

  It’s hard to believe that I’ve only known her for two months. Just two months out of nearly thirty years in this world. I’ve met thousands of people. A few became friends, even fewer became lovers. A lot more than them became kills. But only one defined who I was and gave me a purpose.

  Lucy Vaughn. The foul-mouthed dancer from Chicago.

  She cries out one final time. Her back arches and her legs twitch with release. I watch her face as it contorts and her teeth drag across her lips. Perfection personified.

  I thrust deep inside, feeling my own climax take hold of me and she watches me come just as I watched her. I growl through clenched teeth as every muscle flexes to bring me down. My skin is on fire and my joints swell. I feel her hands on me, traveling up my abs and arms to hook behind my neck and guide me down to her humming lips.

  I kiss her until I can’t anymore, until my body fights for rest and my vision fades.

  * * *

  I sleep like a damn baby.

  When I wake up, she’s gone.

  There isn’t a sound in the whole house. I can’t sense her feet shuffling across the old floorboards or her crutch tapping along beside her. She’s gotten pretty good at hobbling from room-to-room without me, but I still get nervous with her on the stairs and she’s always — always — lying next to me when I wake up.

  But not this morning.

  “Lucy?”

  I sit up and scan the floor for my slacks as panic sets in. A blitz of worst-case scenarios teases my mind. What if she fell? What if she passed out and hit her head? What if she took off with my car again?

  Oh, fuck. What if she took off with my car again?

  “Lucy!”

  My bare feet tap hard against the stairs as I rush down. I’m wide awake now, searching each room for her usual lounging places. She loves to relax on the couch with a book and the kitchen chairs are the perfect height to rest her foot on, but she’s nowhere to be found.

  “Lucy!”

  I shove the front door open and the tension crashes from my shoulders.

  “Shh…” she whispers from the porch floor.

  I tilt my head. She’s balanced on her left leg with her left hand planted in front of it. The rest of her is in the air. Her braced knee is stretched out parallel to the floor with her other hand shooting high above her. A perfectly straight line from her fingertips to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Half-moon pose,” she replies, calm and steady.

  I heave a sigh, checking out her tight shorts and tank top. “I see that.”

  Lucy rises out of it so quickly my heart lurches, but she keeps her balance the entire time. “You’ve seen my morning routine before.”

  “Once,” I say, remembering. “It’s been a while.”

  “I felt really good this morning,” she says. She plants her left foot onto the floor and raises her right to hook her fingers in her toes before extending it out to the side. “I didn’t want to waste any more time.”

  “You’re not wasting time, Luce,” I say. “You’re healing.”

  “I’ve healed,” she says with her eyes closed and her balance on form. “Now, it’s time to start training.”

  “I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

  “You mean you’re not ready yet.”

  I bite my cheek. “I don’t think you should start training until you can, at the very least, stand on your knee.”

  She brings her right foot down and lays it flat against the porch. Her eyes open and she stares right at me as she lifts her left ankle off the floor, putting all of her balance into her busted leg.

  “Lucy…” I warn, waiting for the moment pain crosses her eyes and her leg collapses beneath her.

  It never does.

  “Trust me. I can handle a bit of morning yoga, Dante,” she says, her voice solid as stone. “I know my limits.” She lowers her foot and I exhale the breath I’ve been holding since she raised it. “You know… I’ve done this every morning this week.”

  I blink. “You have?”

  She smiles. “You’ve been sleeping so well. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  My heart flutters. This goddamn woman. She’s somehow managed to be weaker and stronger than me at the same time.

  I cup her cheeks, drawing her magnificent face up to kiss her. Her hands settle on my bare waist as I pull her closer to me and hold her there.

  She laughs. “You seem a bit high-strung, Mr. Hart,” she teases. “Maybe you’re the one in need of some yoga.”

  “Maybe.” I stare down into her fearless eyes and she fills me with her strength. I pinch her pink cheeks, shaking my head to scold her. “Get inside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She plants a playful kiss on my cheek and snatches her crutch from its place leaning against the house. It’s obvious she doesn’t even need it anymore, but she tucks it under her arm for my benefit, smiling back at me as she goes.

  Lucy walks inside.

  She’s walking again.

  She doesn’t need me to carry her anymore. She doesn’t need to wrap her arms around my neck and hold on while I do the work. It stings for a moment, then the warm pride sets in.

  The world tore her down, ripped her to shreds, laughed at her, and tried to burn her alive.

  But here she is. Walking. Smiling. Thriving.

  She’s ready.

  Chapter 26

  Lucy

  My father never taught me how to defend myself. He was never much of a fighter to begin with. If anyone tries to mug you, just give ‘em what they want. Your life isn’t worth the cash in your purse.

  He wasn’t wrong but I can’t help but wonder if he’d still be alive today if he knew how to disarm an attacker.

  There were only four gangsters in that auditorium, Marty Zappia included. There were twelve dancers, myself and my father included. We outnumbered them. We were all physically fit with trained bodies but not a single one of us walked out of there.

  Dante raises his gun and points it at my face.

  It has taken a bit of time, but I’ve managed to push aside my fear response. I don’t shudder or cringe away from it anymore.

  “It’s just a gun,” Dante told me on the first day. “You should be no more afraid of it than it is of you.”

  I stare down the barrel. I breathe easily. I know its parts inside and out. I know how it works, how to make sure it doesn’t work. I think back to that morning with Marty. I was so numb. I couldn’t think straight. Fear shut me down out of reflex. But now?

  Now, a new reflex kicks in.

  I snap forward and grab the top of the gun with my left hand. I tug back and down, forcing Dante to bend in my direction. With my right hand, I jab forward and stop less than an inch away from his jawline.

  Dante sighs with disappointment. “You’re still too slow,” he says. “I should be disarmed already.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  I release him and step back, feeling a dull ache in my knee. It’s manageable but I shouldn’t ignore it. I lower myself into the armchair by the corner to give myself a break and Dante takes my cue to grab his bottle of water off the shelf across the room next to the pile of ottomans and throw cushions stacked on the old sofa.

  We pushed all the furniture out of the way to give ourselves enough space for our training. The place looks nothing at all like it did when we first arrived, but I guess I’ve changed, too.

  Dante twists the cap off his water bottle. “You shouldn’t hold back anymore either,” he says. “Hit me.”

  “I don’t
want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.” He chuckles. “Lucy, you’re a performer. Do you rehearse one way and do something completely different on opening night? Or do you practice the way you’re going to perform?”

  I smile. “Point taken.”

  “It’s the same principle. You don’t want the first real punch you throw to be the first time you really need it to land. If you hesitate at all, they’ll take advantage of it. Action beats reaction every time.”

  “Okay.” I reach down for my own water stashed by the chair leg. “I’ll do it.”

  Dante wipes the sweat from his brow and kneels in front of me, planting himself in my eye line. “Your size already puts you at a disadvantage,” he says. “Generally speaking, you never want to pick a fight with someone larger than you but there aren’t a whole lot of ninety-pound, five-foot-tall gangsters out there.”

  I take a sip of water. “I’m five-seven, thank you very much…”

  “But you can still keep the upper hand,” he continues, smiling. “Your reflexes can take you pretty far, but you have to work on your speed.”

  I nod, listening carefully. He’s mentioned variations of this to me since the first day we started. I’m small, damaged, and weaker than most men. I may never be large, undamaged, or stronger, but that doesn’t mean I have to lose.

  “Winning requires control,” he says. “Control over your opponent as well as yourself. The second you lose either one, the fight is over.”

  I set my bottle on the floor again. “Got it.”

  “And if you do, there’s no shame in running away.”

  “Have you ever run away from a fight?”

  “No,” he says, “but I can think of plenty of times when I should have.”

  I think of the scars on his body and I can tell he’s thinking about them, too.

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?” I ask slowly. “Running away from a fight?”

  Dante inhales sharply and holds it. “No,” he answers. “Right now, I’m choosing to not get involved. There’s a difference.”

  “Because he was your friend.”

  He squints. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Lilah.”

  He hums with annoyance and takes another sip from his bottle.

  “You said you wanted to kill him,” I say.

  “I did.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  “That’s…” He pauses. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  I raise a brow, signaling that I want to hear more, and Dante releases another sound of annoyance.

  “Yes,” he says. “Fox and I were close. Or as close as you can be in a job where you can’t trust anybody.”

  “Lilah said you were drinking buddies.”

  He chortles. “I guess that’s accurate.” His smile fades. “A month before I met you, Mercer contacted me.”

  “Your squad leader,” I recall.

  “He asked if Fox had ever mentioned anything sensitive. Bits of personal information that could be used to lure him out of hiding.”

  “Did he?”

  Dante bites down. “There was a girl,” he says. “Someone back home in Los Angeles. He loved her but, he couldn’t have her for… whatever reason. He didn’t say why. I told Mercer that and a few weeks later, she was attacked on national TV.”

  I blink twice. “The movie star?”

  He nods. “They went after her to get to Fox. No one’s heard from them since.”

  A chill rolls down my back. “You’re afraid of him.”

  He laughs. “No, Luce. I could easily kill Fox if I wanted to.”

  “Then, why—”

  “Because we’re even,” he says over me. “They went after his girl because of what I told them… and you were hurt because of what he did in response. The way I see it, he and I are even, and we’ll stay that way as long as we stay out of each other’s way.”

  He reaches for my calf, wrapping both hands around it to massage the muscle beneath.

  “How’s it feel in there?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Okay,” I answer, focusing on my knee.

  The dull pain subsides as the satisfying rub of his fingers takes over.

  “Ready to go again?” he asks.

  I nod and he lets go of me. “As long as I get more of that massage later.”

  “You disarm me, Lucy, and I’ll do so much more than massage that body of yours.”

  “Deal.”

  I stand in front of him.

  He raises the gun and points it at me. Before he can even take a breath, I reach out and snatch it, yanking him off-balance and throwing a firm punch into his jaw. I twist the gun from his grip and spin away before he can react.

  I point the gun at his face and his eyes grow wide. “Okay…” He smiles and rubs the side of his jaw. “That wasn’t bad.”

  I laugh at the adrenaline rush tingling my nerves. “Yeah,” I say. “Not bad.”

  Chapter 27

  Lucy

  I’d almost forgotten how satisfying it felt to train my body. I’ve missed that harsh muscle burn, the kind that lingers inside days after exercise. A gentle reminder of how far I’ve come and how much further I have to go. It feels amazing to be in-between those worlds again rather than lagging behind them.

  But not as amazing as Dante’s hands gliding across my wet skin.

  Steam rises off the bathwater around us. I hum softly, relaxing even more against his chest, resting my head back on his hard shoulder.

  “That’s nice…” I say.

  Dante digs his thumbs a little deeper into my back, just an inch or two above the shoulder blades. “Here?” he asks.

  “Mmm-hmmm…”

  He chuckles and continues to rub the knot beneath the surface. His lips fall to my neck and he leaves a trail of kisses up to my earlobe. I fall even deeper into my relaxed state, closing my eyes and listening to the soft thumping of my heart beating in my chest.

  “Lucy?”

  I try to respond but I can’t will myself out of the deep, blissful coma.

  “Lucy?”

  His hands dip into the water, sliding down my body to cup my breasts and give them a firm squeeze. I chuckle softly, enjoying the groping, letting him do what he wants to me. He nibbles at the flesh of my neck and draws me even closer to his body as his hand reaches between my thighs.

  My sigh becomes a moan. “What are you doing?” I ask, lifting my head and gazing back at him.

  “I thought it was obvious,” he jokes, crushing his lips against mine while his fingers rub me a little more.

  I laugh, kissing him back. Pleasure burns inside of me, taking me over until he suddenly stops.

  “You tease…”

  He presses his lips against my shoulder and laughs with me. “You’ve called me worse things.”

  “Can’t argue that…” I latch onto the sides of the bathtub and pull myself away from him, pivoting around to the opposite side to face him. “What’s your favorite so far?”

  He searches his memory. “Let’s see…” I extend my foot to his lap and he takes it in his hands. His lips curl. “Two-bit Chicago thug with a gun to replace his balls definitely stands out.”

  I laugh, blood rushing to my cheeks. “That feels like so long ago now.”

  “It was,” he says, pressing a line up the arch of my foot. “Time moves differently in my line of work.”

  “Yeah, I understand why you just wanted to get laid that night,” I joke. “I doubt you would have bothered with me if you knew how much trouble I’d be.”

  His eyes stay soft on me. “It was never just about getting laid with you, Luce.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He shakes his head. “It really wasn’t.” His chest rises and falls. “I mean, sure… you were hot, and I desperately wanted to fuck you, but…” I kick my heel against his tattooed chest, laughing at him. He takes my foot again and his smile fades. “But I saw that portrait of you in your father’s office an
d… it reminded me of a simpler time. A life gone cold.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, studying his warm, blue eyes.

  Dante pauses and reaches below the water for my other foot. “My mother was a dancer, like you.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “We were on our way home from one of her performances when we crashed.”

  My heart bleeds for him. I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t find the right words.

  His thumbs roll over the ball of my foot, gently pressing in as his gaze lingers on the water between us. “Eli and Lilah don’t remember much about her dancing, but I used to watch her practice.” He smiles at the memory. “She had to do it late at night because she had no time during the day between taking care of us and other responsibilities and I could never sleep even back then, so…”

  He pauses to look at me and I can’t stop the smile from touching my lips.

  “After our parents died, my grandparents told me that Harts don’t break,” he says. “We bruise, we bleed, but we don’t break. We always get back up. A hundred scars later, I’ve never forgotten that.”

  My chest clenches, feeling more like a Hart than ever before. “They sound like good people,” I say. “I wish I could have met them.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you will.”

  “I thought you said your grandparents were dead.”

  “No, I said they weren’t here anymore.” He smiles. “I didn’t say they were dead.”

  I glower playfully. “I want to meet them.”

  “Maybe you will,” he repeats.

  I smile again, knowing he means yes. “So, I reminded you of her?” I ask. “My picture?”

  “You? Oh, god. No.” He shakes his head. “No, my mother was graceful and elegant and poised and—” I kick him again and he laughs at me. “Well-mannered, beautiful, smart—”